


When Your Teachers Have No Chill

by giantteenwolforgy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, Hand Jobs, M/M, Teacher Derek, Teacher Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-05-31 14:50:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6474637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giantteenwolforgy/pseuds/giantteenwolforgy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek's not his boyfriend, but sometimes it feels like he should be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Your Teachers Have No Chill

**Author's Note:**

  * For [klimt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/klimt/gifts).



> This is an auction fic for Bianca, who has been extremely gracious and patient with me. This was commissioned AT LEAST a year ago, but is just getting posted now because I'm the worst. I hope you like it. xo

Stiles is still filling up his thermos with coffee when the obnoxious honking starts. He doesn’t even have to _look_ at the clock to know it must be 7:01, because Derek always takes great pleasure in reminding Stiles when he’s running just the slightest bit late. He hears howling start up in his next door neighbor’s house in answer to the continuous blares of the horn—long, mournful, _shrill_ howls that make Stiles wince because if they’re that loud through the shared wall of their duplex, then that means— 

“Asshole!” his neighbor yells, banging sharply on the wall, just as Stiles decides to cut his losses and leave the bread that’s still browning in the toaster behind. The dog’s howls quiet down into excited barks, but the damage has already been done.

“I’m leaving!” he shouts, almost spilling his coffee as he tries to pick up his lunch, laptop, and messenger bag at the same time. “Sorry—shit—I’m leaving!”

Derek honks the tune to Shave and a Haircut and if Stiles wasn’t frantically trying to get the hell out of the house, he would laugh at the audible cursing coming from next door. “Tell your boyfriend to shut up!” he hears. “People are trying to _sleep_.”

“Not my boyfriend,” Stiles calls back, more out of habit than anything else, and gracelessly scrambles out the door before he gets any smart-ass responses.

His scramble skids to an abrupt halt when he sees the gleaming, black Camaro idling in the street. Derek gives him a smug little wave from the driver’s seat and Stiles rolls his eyes as hard as he can before making his way over.  

“My neighbor hates you,” he tells him as soon as Derek leans over and pushes open the passenger door for him.

“Your neighbor hates _you_ ,” Derek corrects and Stiles shrugs because it’s true. 

“Brad’s a douchebag,” he mutters. “I hate him too. Also, where the hell is your Toyota?”

Derek lips quirk up. “Just felt like driving this today.”

“Yeah right,” Stiles scoffs, trying very, _very_ hard to ignore the low purr of the engine as he gets settled. “You _felt_ like showing off your sex-on-wheels car to all the teachers.”

Derek makes a small noise of dissent as he pulls smoothly away from the curb. “Maybe I wanted to show it off to one teacher in particular.”

Stiles quirks a brow when Derek continues to stare steadily at the road. “Do you mean Jennifer? Are you talking about Jennifer Blake?” Derek makes a face. “Because I can tell you right now—she is going to be _uber_ impressed, my friend.”

“What— _Stiles_. She will not.” 

Stiles sends him an incredulous look, but Derek is still shaking his head, lips pressed together like he honestly believes his knowledge about the Crimean War is what has Jennifer lurking by his doorway at every free chance.

“Whatever you say, _compadre_ ,” he murmurs, leaning forward to fiddle with the radio. The silence they’ve lapsed into isn’t exactly awkward, but it’s not as comfortable as it usually feels between them. It lasts until they slow to a stop at a red light and Derek lolls his head to the side, eyes coming to rest on Stiles for several seconds.

“I wasn’t talking about Jennifer,” he finally says. He’s trying to sound casual, but his voice is a little too pointed to be completely successful. Stiles tries to hide a smile, a familiar flush of pleasure spreading through his body.

“Hm. You got a thing for Scott, then?” he teases as the light turns green. Derek groans loudly in response, and the quiet moment is broken.

Truth be told, Stiles is actually pretty thankful that Derek chose to change up their carpool rotation with his (cool as shit) Camaro. It’s incredibly satisfying to slide out of the car like some kind of badass once they swing into a parking spot. Derek surpasses him on the cool-meter because he went all out and wore his douchey leather jacket and sunglasses, but even in a wrinkled cardigan Stiles feels like his messenger bag is actually full of illegally obtained money instead of class rosters and worksheets.

“So,” Stiles says, as they start to make their way inside the high school. “You should definitely drive your Camaro all the time. This is awesome.”

“Careful, you’re drooling,” Derek says, teeth flashing as he grins at Stiles.

“You’re such a dick.”

He’s not though—not really, because when they get inside, he shrugs off his leather jacket to reveal a dorky sweater vest combo and buys Stiles a honeybun from the vending machine in the teacher’s lounge to make up for his abandoned toast.

Stiles eats it happily while Derek tries to choke down some burned coffee and their knees press gently together under the table.

Derek’s not his boyfriend, but sometimes it feels like he should be. 

* * *

Stiles has a free period at the same time Derek teaches his AP European History class. He hasn’t had a chance to sit in on his class in a few weeks, but today he’s finished with everything a bit earlier than normal and he takes the time to slide across the hall while Derek is stuck in conversation with Jennifer.

“Mr. S!” someone says in surprise as he sinks into Derek’s chair and props his feet up on the desk.

He recognizes Erica from the last time he joined the class. She’s sitting with Lahey and that kid Boyd and he gives them all a smile. “Hey guys. What’s up?”

“Long time no see,” Isaac says, characteristic smirk gracing his lips. “We’ve missed you.”

“And I’ve missed you.”

“Sure,” Erica snorts, foot tapping coyly on the floor. “You’ve missed _us_.”

He narrows his eyes at her, but she just smiles winningly.

“Are you teaching us today?” a girl at the back asks. 

Stiles sighs and leans back in the chair, one eye still on Erica. “No. I’m a student today.” 

“You aren’t on the roster,” Derek says, giving him an unimpressed look as he closes the door to his classroom.

“Late addition,” he says cheerily, sending him a wink. Someone giggles. “Could I have a copy of the syllabus?”

“If you’re willing to stay after class, I can get you _all_ caught up,” Derek says without missing a beat, and a shiver goes up Stiles’s spine at the implication. He glares briefly at Derek, who just stares steadily back at him, before he huffs and crosses his arms—rolling his eyes at how immeasurably smug Derek looks to have rendered him momentarily speechless.

Stiles realizes too late that most of the class is watching with wide eyes, and he flushes a splotchy color that makes Derek snicker as he picks up a piece of chalk.

“Who can tell me what we discussed last class?” he asks, twirling it between his fingers easily. 

Stiles swallows hard.

Derek is staring at the class expectantly, but they’re all looking through their notes or generally being mesmerized (probably) by the way his fingers are _still_ moving, so Stiles says: “Europe,” just to make it stop.

Derek sighs. “Can someone who was _actually in class_ tell me what we talked about? Specifically?”

* * *

“Get out of my chair,” Derek says, as soon as the last student has disappeared out the door.

“I thought you wanted to get me _caught up_ ,” Stiles teases him.

Derek raises an eyebrow and digs through a pile on his desk, thrusting a wrinkled syllabus in his direction.

“Aw,” Stiles frowns, “I was hoping that was actually a euphemism for something.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Yes, Stiles,” he sighs. “I was planning to let you bend me over on _Boyd’s desk_.”

“I’m kidding,” he laughs, though he kind of wants to cry. He raises a considering eyebrow as he flips through the packet unseeingly, trying not to let it show how much his fingers are tingling. “But does that mean you’d let me somewhere else?”

“ _Stiles_ ,” he says in exasperation. His cheeks are flushing an endearing shade of pink that makes Stiles smile fondly up at him. Derek huffs out a breath before muttering, “Get _out_ of my chair.”

“Only if you come eat lunch with me,” Stiles tosses back. “I need back up just in case Harris tries to jump me.” 

“He’s like 80.”

“He’s spry for his age, dude. He chased down some kid in the hallway for texting the other day.”

Derek heaves out a long sigh and mutters, “ _Fine_ ,” like he wouldn’t have ended up sitting with Stiles anyways.

* * *

It’s a Wednesday, and his kids are all preoccupied with their discussion groups. Stiles is preoccupied with trying to trick the school’s internet into allowing him to change Derek’s picture on the BHISD website. The picture is one of Stiles’ prized possessions; one he secretly snapped when he and Derek had dinner at Laura’s house. It’s fucking _gold_ —an old ninth grade yearbook photo—and Derek has over-gelled hair, big ears, bunny teeth. It’s sickeningly cute and kind of hilarious. Stiles can see the blush on Derek’s cheeks already.

He gives up after fifteen minutes of the same _you are unauthorized to make this change_ message and decides to just ask Danny to do it the next time he’s in the computer lab. 

He looks across the hall, where Derek is also bent over his desk; tries to get his attention. Both of their doors are propped open, so it doesn’t take very long.

Derek raises his eyebrows at him and Stiles tries to convey something along the lines of _Entertain me, I’m bored._ He seems to understand if the roll of his eyes is anything to go by. Stiles even pouts as pitifully as he can, but Derek just makes a face at him and tosses his stress ball up in the air, catching it without even having to look. Stiles scowls at him, which only prompts Derek to smirk widely and do it again.

What an asshole.

Stiles rips a page from the notepad on his desk and scrawls _dinner?_ on it, crumpling it up into a ball and lobbing it across the hall and towards Derek, who is so busy messing with the stress ball that the paper hits him right in the temple. His indignantly surprised face is so hilarious that Stiles has to physically bite his lips together to keep from laughing.

Stiles manages to catch the paper when Derek whips it back at him and he opens it up to find that Derek has simply responded with: _YOUR TURN TO BUY :)_

He snorts quietly and flips him off behind his desk.

Derek smiles winningly at him.

“ _Mr. Stilinski!_ ”

His head snaps up at Heather’s tone; she sounds like that wasn’t the first time she’d said his name.

Her friend Danielle is watching him with amused eyebrows, which—how can someone’s eyebrows even be amused? Stiles doesn’t know, but Danielle has achieved it.

He shoots a glare at Derek who is looking infuriatingly innocent before he stuffs the note in his pocket and goes to help Erica.

* * *

_when your teachers have no chill_

That's the title of the cartoon Stiles has found crumpled up underneath a desk, like it fell out of someone's backpack on the way out the door. Rule Number One of writing notes about your teachers, guys. Don't fucking leave it where said teacher can find it. Even though this picture has no names attached, he can still tell exactly who the stick figures are. His figure has a messenger bag and freckles. And heart eyes. Derek's has a five o'clock shadow and a blush and bushy eyebrows. They're both smiling. And holding hands.

It would even be a cute drawing if Stiles wasn't so offended. He has chill. He _does_. Sure, okay, he gets a little weak in the knees every single time Derek beams at him, he can admit that. But they don't know that! At work? He's professional. Detached. He does not stare at Derek with _heart eyes_ , as this picture suggests. At least he hopes he doesn't. Jesus, is he really this obvious?  

"Hey, you almost ready?"

Stiles jumps so hard, his knee almost overturns the desk he's standing in front of. "Jesus!" he hisses, rounding on Derek. He's leaning against the edge of Stiles' desk. His eyebrows go up at Stiles' reaction. 

"You okay?" he asks slowly.

"Fine."

"Okay. What's that?"

The note. He's asking about the note. "A note," Stiles answers, very loquaciously. Derek blinks. "It's about us."

"Us?" Derek heaves himself off the desk and comes to stand behind Stiles, peering over his shoulder at the cartoon. He smells good, like always.  

"Well," Derek finally says, eyes still fixed on the note. "They aren't wrong."

Stiles scoffs, stomach swooping. "Please. The heart eyes are a little much."

Derek shrugs. "I think they suit you."

"Yeah?" His cheeks feels hot, and Derek's expression softens when they meet each other's eyes. Fuck. They really do have no chill.

"Yeah." 

* * *

Distantly Stiles is aware that his heart is beating a little bit faster than normal, that his hands are clammy. There's no reason to be nervous. Stiles isn't even sure why he _is_ except for the fact that they kind-of-sort-of acknowledged the elephant in the room, which is something they just don't do. They never have. Their relationship has been right at the edge of _something more_  for longer than is probably normal because they just don't talk about it.

 _They aren't wrong,_ Derek had said. 

He's right. Stiles can recognize the energy in the air when they hang out together, knows they flirt and tease each other on a daily basis. Knows that even though they aren't technically dating, Derek acts more like a boyfriend-- _feels_ more like a boyfriend--than just another buddy. Stiles always sort of assumed that they were inevitable; that there was no rush to label this thing they have. But maybe Stiles is tired of that. He is twenty-fucking-seven years old and he's in an unofficial relationship (sans any benefits) with the hottest guy he knows. That's just pathetic. 

"You want a beer?" Derek calls from the kitchen, breaking Stiles out of his reverie as he unloads the Chinese takeout on the coffee table. They're at Derek's house because his place is bigger and also he doesn't share a wall with Brad the Douchebag.

"Sure. Grab some napkins?"

Derek hums his agreement and emerges from his kitchen a moment later, depositing the goods carefully on the table before hooking a thumb towards his bedroom. "I'm gonna change into something more comfortable."

"Yeah, great," Stiles says, twisting the cap of his beer off and downing a huge gulp. _Comfortable_ is code for _sweatpants_ , which actually isn't great at all. Derek in sweatpants always makes Stiles think dirty, _dirty_ things. 

There's a weird vibe in the air tonight. Usually they grade papers when they have dinner, but Stiles doesn't want to go back to the status quo again. With the vague feeling he's stepping off of a cliff, Stiles starts looking through Derek's movie collection. It's nowhere near as extensive as his own, but he pulls out a few options and then sits back down on the couch, fingers tapping on his knees. 

 _May or may not be on a date with Derek right now,_ he texts Scott. 

He gets an answer back almost immediately. It just says: _fucking_   _finally_

He rolls his eyes and throws his phone across the room towards his messenger bag. 

Derek pads out of his room, collapsing next to Stiles on the couch and immediately shoving a forkful of fried rice in his mouth. It's way cuter than anything so disgusting should be. Stiles rips his eyes away and busies himself with filling his own plate. 

"You want to watch a movie tonight?" he asks casually, nodding towards the two he picked out.

Derek stills. Stiles can feel his eyes on him--can literally feel where they're boring into the side of his face and warming his blood. He refuses to look over. 

"Sure," he finally says. 

* * *

They watch Jurassic Park. 

Derek puts an arm around his shoulders, and Stiles settles into him happily, munching on an eggroll. 

It feels like it should maybe be weird. But it isn't.

Stiles has already met his family. He has a spare key to his house and Stiles steals his phone charger when he loses his own, and he knows his coffee order by heart. Derek is basically already his boyfriend. Stiles is tired of waiting for the fun stuff. 

He shoves his plate away once Derek's starts stroking along his arm, raising gooseflesh everywhere his fingertips touch. He's trying to be cool, act like this doesn't affect him too much, but Derek inches a little bit closer when he gets no reaction. He's insistent, breathing against the shell of his ear, hand tightening on his shoulder. Stiles is still staring at the television, but it's unseeingly, blood rushing through his ears in a dull roar.

"Stiles," he murmurs. 

Stiles' eyes fall closed. "Huh," he gets out.

Derek's lips trail over his ear, lightly touch his cheek. Stiles shivers and he can _feel_ Derek's smug grin from where he sits even though he can't see it.

"I hate you," he groans. "You're doing this on purpose."

"Doing what?"

"Torturing me."

"I wouldn't call this torture," he murmurs. His lips drop onto his shoulder, searing him through the thin layer of his shirt.

"Derek," Stiles says, embarrassingly breathless. "C'mon. Get on with it."

"Fine," he says and kisses him. Its hot and wet and so worth all the stupid time they waited for it. Stiles lets a sigh escape from him and wraps his arm around Derek's neck, lets Derek push him down into the couch cushions and cover his body with his own.

"That was easy," Stiles says between kisses. They still haven't talked about it.

Derek's eyes flick up to him. "Things like this _should_ be easy," Derek says. He's sprawled on top of Stiles, body weight pushing him into the sofa. One hand is running through Stiles' hair, and he's smiling softly down at him. "It doesn't have to be hard."

"Oh," Stiles says, wicked grin sliding on to his face. "I beg to differ."

Derek blushes and leans in for another kiss.

Derek's tongue is a thing from Heaven, sliding wet and sinuously slow along Stiles' lips until Stiles--greedy and wanton--lets him in and tastes it for himself. He arches off the sofa and into the hard press of his body, groaning when Derek's hands slip under Stiles's shirt and press into bare flesh. Stiles thinks he can feel the whorls of Derek's fingerprints imprinting on him.

"Fuck," he groans. "Why didn't we do this sooner."

Late at night, with his hand shoved down his pants, Stiles used to imagine that Derek's lips would wreck him. Instead they caress him, brush his mouth, his cheekbones, the cut of his jaw with unwavering tenderness. It's so much better; almost too much to handle. He feels like a teenager on a first date; happy and out of breath and flushed head to toe with pleasure just from _kissing_.

God, he feels gross though. He's bloated from Chinese food, a little sweaty from a long day at work, his face red with desire, chest splotchy. And yet, every time Derek looks down at him, it's with awe, like he can't believe they're finally doing this. He's making these delicious little noises above him, hips moving in small thrusts against him, a constant tease. Stiles is embarrassingly hard in his slacks, and when Derek pulls his body away and ducks his head low to breathe, Stiles glimpses a wet spot bleeding through the gray sweatpants and knocks his head back against the arm of the couch in distress.

Stiles isn't going to survive this relationship, he truly is not.

"Fuck," he breathes out. "Fuck, fuck, get back here--"

And down he comes again, hips rubbing harder, longer, creating delicious friction with each grind. Stiles can do nothing but grab random handfuls of Derek's back, his shoulders, his _ass (_ which makes him moan out a shocked noise against Stiles' lips).

"Stiles," he says, eyes half-wild. He's losing his composure which is honestly the greatest thing Stiles has seen in a long time. Stiles feels embarrassingly close already, the hot, hard line of Derek's dick pressing into the crease of his hip. He feels like he's sweating through his shirt, and struggles to unbutton it, trying to pull it off when it's still half-done and getting caught around the head until Derek helps rip it off of him. He goes almost immediately to a nipple, sucking it into his mouth and running his tongue around the outside of it which draws a keening noise from Stiles' mouth. 

"Feels so good--"

Derek mumbles something Stiles doesn't hear against his chest and rubs his hips more forcefully against him.

" _Oh_ \--Let me touch you," Stiles begs. "Derek," he mutters, tugging at his hair. "Derek, come up here." Derek does, latching onto Stiles' lips with the same vigor as he did his nipple. His stubble is scratching against Stiles' face, probably rubbing it raw, but he can't bring himself to care. "Here," he says, shoving at the waistband of Derek's trousers. "Off, off, come on."

Derek gasps out a wet noise, mouth dragging down to Stiles' his neck as he pushes his sweat pants down and sits up straight on Stiles' thighs to try to pull them all the way off. His cock is jutting out; thick, uncut, fucking _beautiful_ , the tip of it smeared wet with precome. Even as Stiles watches he sees another blurt ease it's way out and his mouth waters. Stiles reaches forward, traces his fingers lightly along the length and Derek jerks forward, letting out a noise like he's been punched. He abandons his pants where they're still tangled around one ankle and starts fumbling with Stiles' zipper, unbuttoning them and yanking his briefs down just low enough so his cock can spring out, at attention and ready.

Derek has the audacity to _pause_ and raise one eyebrow. "Someone's excited," he mutters and Stiles snorts out a laugh. 

"I could say the same to you."

Derek smiles fondly at him before leaning down and capturing his lower lip between his own, sucking gently before wrapping a hand around both of their cocks, squeezing them together, and thrusting forward in one smooth move. Stiles make a noise somewhere between a dying whale and a yelp. Derek chuckles into his neck, abruptly choking to a stop when Stiles thrusts his hips up in revenge, adding to the friction of Derek's movements.

"Hey. Hey, I'm not gonna last long," Stiles pants out.

"Me neither." He groans, pushing his hips harder into Stiles. The button of his pants is digging uncomfortably into his hips, but this is too good, too perfect to even care. Derek shoves his other hand deep into Stiles's underwear, cradling his balls and giving him a soft squeeze and Stiles moans again, bucking up into Derek's hand, his breath coming faster.

"Derek, I'm--I--"

Derek kisses him again, fiercely, his tongue sliding easily into his mouth. The feeling of Derek everywhere: leaking on his stomach, hands around his most private parts, tongue against his own, is what pushes him over the edge. Derek groans when Stiles does; pulls away to watch him come with an awed look on his face, eyes fixed on the streaks of come now painting his chest. He sucks in a breath, releasing Stiles' dick from his grip before letting his hand move faster, more furious over his own cock.

Stiles takes a deep breath, bats Derek's hand away and replaces it with his own, relishing the hot, velvety feel--the slick-slide of his precome against his palm.   Derek thrusts in to his hand, hips moving wilder each time and he's making these little noises that are driving Stiles crazy. Stiles pulls him down, digs a hand into the planes of his back, bites at his ear, breathes "Come on," and kisses him hard. His spent dick twitches when he feels Derek stiffen and hot streaks of come shoot into the space between them.

Derek stays still for a brief moment before groaning in relief and collapsing on top of him, pants still caught around his ankles. Stiles feels debauched, sticky, _totally fucking awesome_. His hand drifts through Derek's hair, scratching the back of his head softly. He makes a noise of contentment into Stiles' chest.

Stiles grins softly, his other hand coming up to trace along his spine. "Hey Derek?"

"Mm."

"We missed most of the movie."

"Don't care."

Stiles shakes him gently. "But that means we missed Jeff Goldblum in all of his rugged, paleontological glory."

"Wow," Derek says dryly. "Maybe you should date him instead."

Stiles feels so happy his chest kind of aches. He pulls Derek a little bit closer. "Nah. I think I'll stick with you."

* * *

The next morning Stiles sticks the drawing of the two of them on Derek's fridge. It really is a cute picture. Embarrassingly enough, his stick figure's heart eyes bear an uncanny resemblance to a few sappy looks he's given Derek in the last twelve hours. Fine. He has no chill. He'll accept it. But--

He adds a female stick figure to the background of the drawing. She has medium length hair and is crying. When Derek sees it, he rolls his eyes so hard that Stiles is surprised when he doesn't sprain something.

"Seriously, Stiles? Who is--Is that supposed to be Jennifer?"

Stiles shrugs. "Just trying to keep it as accurate as possible. Anything you'd like to add?"

Derek sighs, snatches the pen from Stiles and draws some matching heart eyes on himself.


End file.
